


Miri It Is

by CrownedKingLewis



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Faun Steve, M/M, Satyr Billy, There might be Eventual Smut, and maybe trigger warnings, there's really no timeline for this?, this is basically a fairytale au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-08
Updated: 2019-03-08
Packaged: 2019-11-14 02:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18044087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrownedKingLewis/pseuds/CrownedKingLewis
Summary: As they gather up to leave, Billy wishes he understood what longing for nymphs felt like. It would be easier, he thinks. He’d have something to look forward to every waking morning.





	Miri It Is

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SelfishPrick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelfishPrick/gifts).



> There's art for this [here](http://wasting-time-again.tumblr.com/post/183274807899/benalras-dead-night-harringrove-we-all-knew-that) and [here](http://benalras.tumblr.com/post/183163347207/wasting-time-again-dead-night-harringrove-as)!
> 
> Thank you, wasting-time-again and dead-night-harringrove for the motivation!

**** The sun rises at the break of dawn, as per usual, over the backwoods and the mountains across the land.

 

A soft, tangerine glow touches the crown of the trees, creeping between the branches and brittle leaves. He watches the sunlight hit the meadows, unhappy with the chilly, humid air of the ending night. He hopes that once the creatures stir awake come morning, the sun will be warmer on his skin and fur. With harvest season fast approaching, he predicts delights like these will end with fall and the _ excruciating _ beginning of winter. 

 

He contemplates the future in solace. The others blather in a drunken haze still, gathering the remnants of their last feast. There isn’t much left -- the meat has long since gone rancid, the wine cold, and the ashes of the extinguished fire are damp over the dirt. What remains is the dull aching of his skull and the throbbing at the back of his eyes, the buzz that makes his lips and tongue numb, and the sway of his head that warns him not to stand.

 

Against his better judgement, he stands anyway. The world tilts sideways almost immediately, and he slumps back against the tree he’d been sleeping on. He might try that again later.

 

He watches Iadam attempt to stand too. Poor bastard doesn’t get it right the first time, nor the second time. Billy doesn’t remember a day where he’s ever seen his brother sober, cheeks always rosy and eyes glassy. 

 

Their voices rise and echo through the woods once their minds are less muddled. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. With slurred words, they talk of the pretty nymphs that bathe near the crisp waterfall of a nearby river every sunrise. They have dreamy and sleazy grins on their faces, talking of the nymphs’ soft skin and hair, and the gentle curve of their breasts. They fantasize of what their thin, nimble fingers must feel like, of what their mouths must taste like -- their wandering thoughts promptly becoming more obscene. They share intimate ideas afterwards, unashamed, and Billy listens with little interest; they’re satyrs after all.

 

Lustful fools, all of them. Maybe even including himself.

 

The nymphs laugh at them anyhow. His brothers are too determined for what little luck they have. Too stupid. Billy has very few things in common with them, and  _ one _ of them is their thirst for wine.

 

Not their hunger for women. 

 

As they gather up to leave, Billy wishes he understood what longing for nymphs felt like. It would be easier, he thinks. He’d have something to look forward to every waking morning. 

 

Sometimes he convinces himself to believe the nymphs are just… too fair. Billy sees it in them, the ethereal glow and the elegant curves of their bodies. They look unreal under the sunlight of spring, with flowers in their hair and lips turned pink from the berries they eat. They  _ are _ beautiful. They sit by the rippling water, rest on the rocks, and allow their sweet fragrance to permeate the air before bathing in the river. The following sight is always near erotic. As Billy watches the water slide down their backs and drip down their ass cheeks, he understands why they’re so desirable.

 

He just doesn’t  _ want _ them. Some days, in fact, he thinks he wishes  _ he were _ like them. Breathtakingly divine, with men kissing the ground he walks on.

 

He has a vessel from which he drinks from, nevertheless, and a rough, calloused hand for when nights get  _ particularly _ lonely. 

 

And feasts. He  _ loves _ feasts.

 

* * *

 

They’ve had wine til dusk this time. The fervent heat of their bodies serves as a trick that helps them survive the cold, autumn night. An illusion, more like. He wakes up in a sweat every single time, only to chatter his teeth when his body begins to cool.

 

The nymphs have vanished for the coming season already. They always do. Not even he would bathe in the freezing water.

 

Kal’s tall frame wavers over the burning fire, casting a shadow that’s comically sinister over the trees behind him. His horns look longer that way, sharper, like some sort of demonic figure hovering over their drunken heads. But what stands before him is a satyr that’s trying too hard to stay upright. Billy squints at him, and _ thinks _ the gentle breeze of the wind is responsible for it. He laughs, cheeks going pink, but no one really hears.

 

“You are to marry Cheza this spring,” Zhac reminds the youngest; Kal winces. Billy’s more concerned he might fall into the fire. “It seems she has taken a liking to you.”

 

“She has.” Kal answers, though with little enthusiasm. 

 

With how little fondness they have for their satyr women, Billy wonders how their species has even managed to survive generations.

 

“What about you?” Iadam chimes in, voice loud.

 

Billy’s vision almost swims away when he tries to focus on the other. And when he does, he realizes his dim eyes are fixed on Billy. Hard, almost uninviting. Always confrontational. Years of maturity have never fixed how little they like each other.   
  


Billy approaches the question with a guarded front. He attempts to wash away the bitterness in his mouth with more bitter wine, lets out a rumbling groan when he’s done. He turns his gaze back to the fire too.  “What about me?”   
  
He can feel Iadam’s gaze hardening. “You don’t like our women,” A truth rather than an accusation. “You don’t  _ sleep _ with our women,” He sounds suspiciously sure about that one. “And you always look bored when we head to the river.”

 

“Bored.” Billy echoes, ponders, and snorts. “Because I  _ am _ bored.”

 

Iadam’s silhouette shifts from the corner of his eyes, so Billy looks, only to see him sitting up straighter, leaning towards him. His features are twisted into a scowl. “Then why not return to the village?”

 

The heat spreading across his face doesn’t come from the wine this time. “Don’t act the fool.”  His foggy sight might be tricking him, but he thinks he saw the rest of his brothers stiffen. Slowly, he conveys some of that growing anger with every word that rolls off his tongue, in that particular way that always manages to intimidate the rest. “You know why.”

 

In a poor attempt to lighten up the mood, someone asks, “Does anyone fancy more wine?”

 

But it doesn’t work.

 

“Because you’re different from the rest of us,” Iadam continues, sounding bitter. “Like a  _ freak _ .”

 

To Billy, it sounds like someone trying desperately to cut deep with a blunt dagger. It hurts, but the pain is old and dull. He's too familiar with it. What rises from within is a hot wave of hatred, an instinct to strike back with just as little pity.

 

His body feels too heavy with wine, though, and what he actually manages to say is, “I feel rather fortunate,” His words are harsh. “Can’t imagine being as hideous as you.”

 

“You think you’re better than us?” Iadam asks, words sharp. “You  _ prick _ ?”

 

Billy feels his blood boil and his ears grow hot. In all his drunken stupor, he manages to stand. He wipes the wine from the corner of his lips with his forearm and spits, “What’d’ya say to me?”

  
Iadam does the same. But someone steps between them. Valaim -- Billy can’t tell, he isn’t looking. “That’s enough--”

  
“You heard him,” Iadam is nodding towards Billy though, face breaking into a grin that’s nasty and daring. It makes his teeth grind together. “Isn’t that right,  _ William _ ?” Billy flinches. “Bet you’ve never tasted a cunt in your life.”

 

“Funny,” Billy smiles widely at him, so disingenuous it actually hurts on his face. “I reckon you _ beg _ the nymphs to let you taste theirs, and they never do.”

 

Iadam is  _ reeling _ within seconds, lips curling like a snarling wolf. He steps forward, but he's pulled back almost immediately, held by the very few that are sober enough to use their strength. 

 

This is not the first time this happens. It might not be the last time either. So Billy announces, “I’m leaving,” Makes sure not to leave without any wine, and vehemently adds, “I’m  _ bored _ .”

 

“Go, you coward,” Iadam calls after him as Billy stumbles between the trees and avoids the shrubs and the protruding roots. “Maybe you’ll find somewhere you belong.”

 

It’s a weak insult. Billy’s heard worse coming from him, words that end in blood and bruises and strained muscles.

 

Yet it remains with him through his aimless path. While he flounders through the dark and hisses when sharp rocks stick uncomfortably to his hooves, the moon shines from above, but the foliage gives little way to its light. Wine sloshes around in his stomach, grows hot beneath his skin, and turns his vision cloudy and astray. And he can only wonder, albeit angrily, if he could really find a better place out there in the fucking woods.

 

They’re always so lonely and devoid of  _ anything _ . 

 

By sheer chance he comes upon the waterfall where the nymphs bathe, and it is also vacant. Something about it looks different; colors faded and the water grey. 

 

The sight makes him sad, angry almost. He thinks of the places where he sat to watch, wishing the nymphs looked different. Maybe with rougher features and less curves. They sometimes talked to him, poking fun with teasing jokes that never made him laugh. Eventually, they stopped mocking him and began staring at him with insistent curiosity.

 

The attention always made him uncomfortable. 

 

So are the amount of sticks and dried leaves getting tangled in his fur. He has very little idea for how long he has walked, but he feels lost in an intoxicated haze. He leans against a tree, tries to drink from his vessel, and finds that it is empty. 

 

Maybe he could sleep here, drift away and have a bear maul him. It sounds like a better fate than being a stranger to his own people.

 

Then, in the distance, he hears a tune.   
  


Billy pauses and his posture wavers. Bloodshot eyes search for something he can’t see but only hear. The song fluctuates faintly, carried by the wind that blows gently through the forest. It is soothing to the ears, quite familiar. Though this sounds like a lullaby, not the merry songs he’s accustomed to hear, the ones that are fitting to dance to.

 

He’d sit and listen. He would.

 

But he keeps looking. Billy stumbles forward once again, slowly, so that his steps are less loud over the muddy dirt. If he’s fortunate enough, he’ll find he hasn’t gone insane. Yet.

 

There's a spot where the trees part and the starry sky unveils in the open, where the moon glows bright and elegant and Billy begins to feel out of place in his beastly nature and drunken stench. The silence thickens when he stops walking and the crunching of the leaves beneath his hooves comes to an end. It gives way for the natural noise of the woods, the beating of his heart and the steady breathing elaborated by his lungs. Then to the soft, melodic tune that starts anew to his right. 

 

First, he sees a dark silhouette sitting by a rock. It seems unfocused in the distance. Billy squints hard, feel his eyes hurt from the struggle, but he soon realizes he might have found what he was looking for.

 

By the rock sits a creature much like him, with long legs and cloven hooves. A man, he thinks, or at least half a man. His fur dark and voluminous, the hair on his head just the same. He has double the pair of horns Billy possesses, two that curl around his ears and two others that curl towards the sky, much like his own. 

 

His skin, however, is fair. He doesn’t look like he’s seen the light of day. Perhaps the moonlight has only ever had that pleasure. 

 

And he plays a long flute, with closed eyes and a relaxed posture. He looks at peace, maybe even at home -- Billy feels his heart skip a beat.

 

A faun, it seems. 

 

A stunning one, too. Billy feels himself inching closer, wanting to see what his face looks like, captivated by the smooth flow of the music that seemingly calls to him.

 

Then the tune stops abruptly; the creature has turned to look directly at him. 

 

He stills, or they both do. There’s silence between them. Cold, unnerving silence. And then the faun flees.

 

“Wait --” 

 

Billy only gets a mouthful of dirt and grass. His balance has betrayed him, and he props himself up from the ground on his forearms, curses up a storm as he spits out what’s gotten into his mouth,  _ mourns _ the loss of someone he didn’t even get to see. Not all that well anyway.

 

He curses the day he was  _ born _ to be a drunk. 

 

He looks up, but there’s no one by the rock. Something about the realization upsets him. For once, the woods didn’t feel so empty. 

 

Somehow, Billy returns to his brothers, finds that their joyful feast has died down, or never started. The fire burns weakly, casting shadows upon their unconscious forms. From a corner, Iadam watches him, tired and worn out, sprawled against a tree like a dead man.

 

Billy sits besides him and stares ahead. Soon, Iadam pushes a vessel still filled halfway with wine towards him. He doesn’t say anything.

 

Neither does he. As they drink, huddled in their pathetic existence together, Billy thinks of the faun he witnessed playing for the moon. 

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're wondering, I used a saryr name generator for the names, and picked the ones that sounded the closest to... real ones. And if you want to know what the tune sounded like, I was listening to Claude Debussy's Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun as I wrote. 
> 
> You can also come bother me on tumblr! URL: [benalras](http://benalras.tumblr.com/)


End file.
